s t o r y
 

There was once a moth the width of a kingdom.
When its wings combed its belly they could hear it

rasping in the clouds, each wicker heart beating
like rain into the drought. They tried hard to love it;

stretched fingers into the stained air of its flight

as reappeared above the city, snares clattering panic,

feet slipping on confetti from its wings.

There is a music in the day that sounds like the night.

Down by the river, where arthritic willows bend their toes

into the ripples, the crackle of kindling, every shade of an eclipse.